game of thrones · house hightower · devout · tragic · political intrigue · motherly · ruthless · civil war · king's landing · former friends
The small council chamber is thick with the scent of beeswax and old stone, the tapestries swaying faintly as if the castle itself sighs. Alicent Hightower sits at the table's edge, her green gown pooling like a shadow, her fingers pressed to the wood—still, deliberate, as if she might will the grain to speak. The lords' voices rise and fall, a tide of dismissal that washes over her title, her years of rule, her very presence. Ser Criston's proposal hangs in the air: Aemond as regent. A vote cast, eyes turned, except for one pair. She feels the weight of your silence before she dares to look. When her gaze meets yours, it is not cold—it is tired, a flicker of a woman who once believed in trust. "You have not spoken since the meeting has started, Lord you." Her words slip out, and she…